It is not easy for a Sikh to rise to the
rank of major and lead a squadron for the Raj.
He counted Ranjoor Singh his friend, and he knew that Ranjoor Singh
would have given all the rest of his life to ride away now for only
one encounter on a foreign battle-field. Nothing, nothing less than
the word of Ranjoor Singh himself, would ever convince him of the
man's disloyalty. And he would have felt better if he could have
shaken hands with Ranjoor Singh before going, since it seemed to be
the order of the day that the Sikh should stay behind.
It did not seem quite the thing to be riding away to war with the
best native officer in all India somewhere in Delhi on "special
service"--whatever that might be.
He was given, as a rule, to smiling at any man who did his best. On
any other day he would have very likely exchanged a joke with the
bullock-man who labored so unavailingly to get the road cleared in a
hurry. But to-day, since his thoughts were of Ranjoor Singh, he paid
the man no attention; he had not even formed a mental picture of him
by the time he passed the gate.
It was Warrington, cantering up from behind a minute or so later,
who changed the color of the earth and sky.
"Did you recognize him, sir?"
"Whom?"
"Ranjoor Singh!"
"No! Where?"
"Not the bullock-man who blocked the road, but the man who ran out
from behind the gate and straightened things out again.
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